The Wandmaker
by Valandar
Summary: Ollivander vanished from Diagon Alley in the summer after OotP... yet the First years still have wands! How? Oneshot


Disclaimer: I own nothing! Except perhaps the idea that spawned this. 

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The Maker of Wands

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_"Looks like Ollivander's gone, too... Shop's empty. No sign of a struggle. No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was kidnapped."_ - Arthur Weasley, _"Half blood prince"_ p 106

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Michael Dent stared at the bizarre piece of parchment in his hands. According to it, he was... well... a wizard! If his parents hadn't found independant confirmation, they would never have believed it. But as he sat there staring, his mother was talking to an elderly woman... witch, he corrected himself, in the very next room.

The witch looked more like a schoolteacher than the witches in the movies he had seen, or in Halloween decorations. She showed the signs that she had once been a handsome woman, but age and grief had taken her toll. He could tell at once she was not a woman to cross, but also was one who would move heaven and earth for her students. Michael remembered another teacher he had known like that, from two years ago. She had been his favorite teacher. He could tell this witch, Deputy Headmistress McGonegall, was going to be just such a teacher.

"So we can get everything on his list at this Diagon Alley?" asked Jennifer Dent. Her husband Thomas, Michael's father, sat beside her, almost full to bursting with pride.

Minerva McGonegall nodded. "All except a wand. Unfortunately, the last remaining wandmaker in all of Britain has vanished, just a few days ago." She sighed. "No one knows if he left on his own, or if..." She trailed off. She had never been a personal friend of Ollivander, but he was still a good man, in her eyes.

"I... I see. So how will we get a wand for him?" asked Thomas.

Minerva smiled. "Fortunately, Hogwarts retains the wands of many of its former students. Many students from the past thousand years have willed their wands to Hogwarts, to be used by students otherwise unable to acquire their own."

The Dents breathed a sigh of relief. "Then you'll be by tomorrow to escort us to Diagon Alley?" asked Jennifer.

McGonegall nodded. "I shall be accompanied by a number of experienced witches and wizards, our equivalent of your 'police', as well as the other first year muggleborn families." She smiled at them. "Young Michael will get a chance to meet with his future housemates before the train ride to Hogwarts, which is a rare thing for a muggleborn."

Thomas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is 'muggle' a perjorative term among wizards, Deputy Headmistress?" he asked with a faint chill in his voice.

"I shall not lie to you, it is to some. However, to most, it is a term used more in the way that yo would refer to a Frenchman, or a Russian. A different culture and different way of life, but still human, still worthy of standing or fallling on their own merits."

The man smiled. "Well, to some, Frenchman is a perjorative term. But I catch your meaning. And I apologize for taking even the slightest offense."

"Nonsense, Mr Dent," McGonegal admonished. "I have been in the position to ease the transition of muggleborn wizards and witches and their families for... well, many years now. I realize some of you take offense at the term muggle, and therefore I must apologize to you if you tookoffense."

"Thank you again, Professor," said Jennifer. "And we'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course. And welcome to the Wizarding World."

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Michael was excited. Tomorrow, he would be entering a world he had only imagined, one he had only glimpsed in books, like the Narnia series or Lord of the Rings. The Wizarding World. And he would get his wand when he got to the school. He would be a real wizard.

A loud POP distracted him from his dreams of magic and dragons. "Good evening, Michael Dent," said a rich voice. "Eleven years old, and muggleborn. And direly in need of a wand. Am I correct?"

Frightened, Michael reached over and turned on his bedroom light. There, in the middle of his room, stood a man in robes. His eyes were fathmless, holding depths of both ineffable darkness and brilliant light. Though his head was balding, his face was ageless. "It is a pleasure to meet you," said the man. "You may call me Ollivander."

Michael blinked. "But... didn'e eputy headmistress McGonegall tell Mum yesterday you had vanished?"

"A neccessary precaution, young man. Now, please, stand up," the man asked, holding out a tape measure. Michael did as was told. "Which is your wand arm, then?"

"Err... I'm left-handed, if that's what you mean."

Ollivander nodded. "Very well," and began taking all sorts of measurements. Michael noticed with a funny feeling in his stomach that the tape had begun taking the measurements all on its own, as the man then bent into a large bag, previously hidden by his robes. "Now, let's see, what would do well for you..."

Michael shrugged, causing the end of the tape measure to regard him with what he thought was a reproving look. "I dunno... any wand, I guess."

Ollivander shook his head. "Oh, no, I'm afraid. Until you have grown in power and skill, just any old wand will never do. And even then, only a wand that has chosen you will give you the proper results. Ah, this seems likely. Nine and a quarter inches, oak and thestral mane. Take it, give it a wave," he urged.

Michael did as he was told, but nothing happened. "Nope. Try this, eleven inches, pliable, holly wood and unicorn hair." As with before, nothing happened on an experimental wave.

"Don't worry, lad, there's something here for you, never doubt. There always is. Ahah, there it is. Ten and a half inches, elm and dragon heartstring, slightly whippy." He handed the wand over.to the boy.

The moment he touched the wand, Michael felt a surge of some kind. He waved it about, and blue sparks shot out of one end, snining in the dim light. "Whoah," he marvelled.

"Excellent, excellent. Now, please take this pamphlet, it describes proper wand care. How to keep it clean, and so forth."

Michael looked up guiltily at the unusual wizard. "How... how much do I owe you, sir?" he asked.

"Owe me?" The old man knelt down, eye to eye with the eleven year old. His expression was grave, and Michael thought he saw a hint of sorrow in his deep eyes. "It is i who owe you, and countless other wizards and witches. This wand is free, my boy. But... there is one thing you can do for me," he added.

"Anything!" the child said, eager to do something for the man who had just helped him along with his dream.

"Never tell a soul I was here. Your parents will vaguely remember encountering a wizard with an extra wand, who passed it to you. And it just happened to be the type of wand that would fit you best."

Michael nodded. Of course, he also thought that nobody would ever believe him, not even in the Wizarding World.

"Take care of that wand, then, Michael. It shall serve you as faithfully and loyally as the greatest friend you shall ever have." And with that, Ollivander was gone, leaving behind a wide-eyed child's gratitude and wonder.

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Though it was summer, the night was cold. The balding wizard found himself in Shetland, up at the very northern tip of Scotland. He glanced at his notes, saying, "Ah, yes, Julian Arbor. She is next on my list." He then began walking up the lonely path to a small cottage in the distance.

He would atone for the crimes he had committed, so very long ago. No one, not Dumbledore nor even the recently late Nicholas Flamel, knew the truth of his nature, nor were old enough to remember the crimes he sought to expunge from his soul. Giving wands to muggleboens in these troubled times seemed but a small pennance, but the looks on the children's faces convinced him that maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

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Finis

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A/N: Okay... anybody got any guesses as to who Ollivander might have been in the ancient past:D


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